


The Life and Times of Mary "Molly" Morstan

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assassins, F/M, Jossed, Non-Linear Narrative, Vignettes, bamf!Molly, ignores series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:50:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Molly was twenty-five, she boxed up all the guns, the knives, the ammunition, the poison-darts, the wire, and every other tool of the trade in her possession. She boxed them up, and dumped the lot in the Thames, one dark, moonless night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _So, I haven't seen series 3 of Sherlock yet (it hasn't aired here yet) but I hear that this has been jossed already. Oh well. Anyway, this fic is kinda weird, and I'm not sure if it works, but I didn't want to waste it._

**Now**

When Molly was twenty-five, she boxed up all the guns, the knives, the ammunition, the poison-darts, the wire, and every other tool of the trade in her possession. She boxed them up, and dumped the lot in the Thames, one dark, moonless night.

She stood for a while, watching the river flow past, the keeper of who knew how many secrets.

She took a deep breath.

“That was the old me,” Molly said firmly. “This is the new me.”

And for many years, it was.


	2. Chapter 2

** Then **

Until Mary was four years old, her mother used to call her Molly.

“Mummy’s little girl,” her mother always said. “My little Molly.”

Mary didn’t remember very much about her mother, or being Molly. The only real memory she had was of the day they baked the cake.

Well, it was Molly’s mother who baked the cake, really, but Molly helped. She helped sift flour and stir the mixture in the big mixing bowl, and afterwards Molly’s mother said she could lick the batter off the mixing bowl and the wooden spoon. Molly went and sat in the pantry cupboard to eat it, even though she wasn’t supposed to. The cupboard was all nice and dark, and smelt of nutmeg and sugar and things, and if Molly squeezed herself tight into the corner under the bottom shelf next to the bags of flour, people often didn’t realise she was there.

Molly was absorbed in licking _all_ the cake batter off the big wooden spoon when she heard her mother gasp.

“Who are you?”

Molly leaned forward, wondering why her mother sounded frightened, until she could see through the sliver of space in-between the door and the door jamb, where she hadn’t quite shut the pantry door.

Molly’s mother was standing very still and staring at something, looking very scared.

“Where’s the kid?” 

Molly didn’t recognise the man’s voice, but his voice was rough and unfriendly.

“I sent her to play outside,” said Molly’s mother. Her face had gone very white. “What do you want?”

“Your husband pissed off the wrong bloke,” said the man. There was a _click_. “Carried out a job a couple of weeks ago. My client wants to send a message.”

There was a loud noise that made Molly start and press herself back against the pantry wall, hiding under the bottom shelf again.

Molly heard footsteps in the kitchen, heavy ones, growing fainter as the stranger walked out into the hallway. Molly didn’t dare do anything for a few minutes, too afraid to move.

There was no sound at all.

Molly eased forward, and put her eye to the crack in the door again.

Her mother was sprawled out on the floor, and Molly could just see her face, eyes staring sightlessly while blood ran down the side of her face and pooled on the floor.

Molly scrambled backwards into the corner again, huddling under the shelf in a tiny ball.

She stayed there for what felt like forever, as the light outside the pantry cupboard dimmed and the kitchen slowly grew dark, and everything in front of Molly’s face was black.

It was only when she heard her Dad’s frantic voice calling for her, hours and hours later, that Molly felt safe enough to leave the cupboard.

Molly was Mummy’s little girl, who liked baking and cats and butterflies and frilly dresses.

Molly was gone. All the was left was Mary, who had to be tough as nails, just like her father.

Molly was soft. Afterwards, there was no room for soft.


	3. Chapter 3

** Then **

Mary carried out her first solo hit when she was ten years old. 

People, Mary found, tended not to really notice children. Children were small and harmless and needed protection and had no rights except what adults granted them, and no voice unless an adult felt like letting them be heard.

The only time anyone usually paid attention to a kid was if they were being noisy, or if someone either suspected them of stealing something or was wondering where their parents were.

No one looked twice at Mary as she wandered past in a pair of faded jeans and a plain jacket, just a small blonde girl, ordinary and unremarkable in every way. No one noticed as she approached her target and slashed a blade across an artery, lightning-fast.

As Mary walked away, and panicked shouts erupted a few moments later, she knew that her presence had already been forgotten. Wounded adults were far more important.


	4. Chapter 4

** Now **

Molly liked Jim, she really did. He was polite, and giggled a lot, and adored her cat, and was happy to snuggle with her on the couch watching shows with her that anyone else would have laughed at her for. And Molly was lonely; it was hard to find anyone who seemed to like her, and at this point she just wanted someone who was willing to provide companionship, really. If that meant settling for someone who wasn’t exactly what she wanted, Molly was willing to settle. 

All these things were enough to make her ignore the echo of Mary in her head, whispering _he isn’t what he seems_ and _watch out for this one._

Afterwards, when Molly found out who Jim _really_ was, Mary stirred properly, rising to the surface for the first time in years.

_ You stupid bitch,  _ she told Molly harshly, sounding just like her father. _Christ, every signal was there, and you ignored the lot, tucking them away where you wouldn’t notice. He almost **killed** those two idiots of yours, and you – _

_ Shut up,  _ Molly told herself, very firmly. The voice reluctantly went quiet, buzzing away silently in her brain, wanting to be unleashed. Her hands itched for the familiar heaviness of a gun, the feeling of a knife hidden away, sharp and efficient.

Molly stared at herself in the mirror, seeing the ghost of someone left behind. She made sure to wear her brightest pink lipstick that day, and was twice as nervous as usual.


	5. Chapter 5

** Then **

Mary stared into the toy shop window.

There was the most adorable little stuffed kitten, all plush black fur and big, soulful plastic eyes. It was her birthday coming up soon, and normally Mary got practical things like new clothes or a new throwing knife for her birthday, but maybe, she thought, maybe if she asked, just this once…

Mary’s voice trailed off halfway through her request as her father’s expression remained flat and uncompromising.

“No,” he said bluntly. “I won’t have you getting attached to things, Mary. We can get you a new dress if you want, or some new books, but I won’t have you being sentimental. I didn’t raise you for that sort of weakness.”

That birthday Mary ended up receiving a new pair of boots, a blue summer dress that would be perfect for blending in when she needed to look innocent and inconspicuous, and a book on human anatomy that Molly actually found rather fascinating, which looked like one of the proper medical books that were quite expensive to buy.

Mary was pleased with all her presents. She really was. She needed the boots and the dress was pretty and the book was really interesting. But sometimes she thought wistfully of the toy cat in the toy shop window, and sometimes, when Mary watched other children wandering around, with their cheerful families and hands full of toys, soft and cosseted and getting everything they wanted, Mary felt a rush of furious, envious hatred.

The next time Mary had to go out and pretend to be an ordinary little girl in a pretty dress, Mary could only think, _I am not like them._

The thought was strangely bitter. Mary didn’t ask for things, after that.

Sentiment was deadly. Attachment was fatal. Mary was cold and calculated, and the perfect little assassin. There was no point in wanting things. Wanting things just brought trouble.


	6. Chapter 6

** Now **

Molly was shy and nervous and smiled too much, desperate for people to like her. Sometimes she smiled until it felt like her face would crack. Molly knew she wasn’t good with people, too anxious and overly friendly, always saying the wrong thing. It didn’t come naturally, any of it; it was always awkward and a little nerve-wracking, trying to talk to people and make friends with. The only people Molly felt comfortable with, really, were the dead.

Molly was hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes. He was mesmerising, a genius, driven and amazing and unique. He was clever, fiendishly clever, and made Molly think of diamonds, sometimes; all sharp edges and cold, flawless brilliance. He was beautiful, too, all angles and planes and bright, pale eyes that seemed to dissect everything he saw, laying them bare in all their component parts. Molly knew deep down that she didn’t stand a chance, but Sherlock was the most singular individual she had ever met, and nothing could dull his effect on her. 

She liked John Watson well enough. He was polite, genuinely good-natured, and possibly even more devoted to Sherlock than Molly as. He was perfectly kind to Molly, which was nice, she supposed; but honestly, she wished he wouldn’t pity her. She _knew_ what Sherlock was like, thank you.

If Mary were here, she’d probably think that Sherlock was a bit of a tosser, in need of a good set-down, but satisfyingly competent. Mary had a sharp eye that saw tools and targets. And Doctor Watson? Well, she always had time for a military man with brains and skills as well as training, and beneath the woolly jumpers and sociable smile John was clearly a man to reckon with. He wasn’t all that bad-looking, either. Certainly enough to work with.  
 


	7. Chapter 7

** Then **

Mary watched Moran out of the corner of her eye as she readied her knife to throw.

Her father didn’t usually work with other people, but this one was a long, complicated job, so for once he’d teamed up with a partner. Sebastian Moran had been military until relatively recently, until he was dishonourably discharged. He was tall, and blonde, with a wry sense of humour and a ready grin, and his cheerful demeanour never flagged even when Mary’s Dad was at his most offensive. He was also highly skilled, and had the reputation of being one of the best snipers on the market.

Mary desperately wanted to impress him, which was why she’d waited until he was sitting around grabbing a bite to eat to set up her targets for knife-throwing practice.

Mary had been trained in a lot of things, but she was best with knives. Whether it was short-range or long-range throwing, Mary hit her targets with unerring aim.

Knowing that Moran was watching her made her feel fluttery and nervous, but Mary’s aim was perfectly steady as she threw knife after knife.

She hit the centre of every target. When she was done she surveyed her work, pretending not to feel Moran’s gaze on her.

“You’re very good.”

Mary turned to see Moran giving her an appraising look.

“I practice,” she responded.

“Still, it’s impressive,” he noted. “Especially in someone your age.”

Mary didn’t know what to say to that, so she just stood and watched him.

“Any good with guns?” Moran asked idly.

“I’m okay at close-to-medium range. Not so good with long range.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” Moran reflected for a minute. “I tell you what, if your Dad doesn’t mind, how do you feel about going out and letting me give you a few pointers?

His boyish, charming grin flashed out, blue eyes meeting Mary’s with a friendly warmth she wasn’t used to. It was enough to make her smile back shyly, her face heating up.

“Okay,” she replied.


	8. Chapter 8

** Then **

Mary didn’t get to interact with people often, and she never knew what to say to Moran – he was so nice, and so kind to her, and so handsome – but he never seemed to mind. He chatted amiably to her all the time, while she answered with brisk, short replies, his jokes sometimes winning a smile from her despite her efforts to seem cool and collected.

When they went out to practice shooting, and Moran showed her what to do and corrected things like her posture and grip, Mary listened carefully and did everything he said, treasuring every piece of advice or praise, and every carelessly-thrown smile, her heart beating faster every time he looked in her direction.

After a couple of weeks of this, Mary walked downstairs and paused as she heard Moran and her Dad talking in the kitchen.

“My daughter seems to like you,” Mary heard her father say.

She heard Moran laugh.

“Yeah. I think she’s sweet on me, you know.”

Mary felt her face burn, although she wasn’t sure why.

“Lay a hand on her and I will have your balls.” Mary’s Dad sounded matter-of-fact, but grim.

“Whoa, easy, mate! I’ve got a sister about that age, myself. She’s a nice kid, that’s all.”

Mary fled silently back down the hallway, feeling humiliated, her heart heavy in her chest.


	9. Chapter 9

** Now **

After the disastrous Christmas party, Molly looked at herself in the mirror, and wondered when she’d turned into this. Little mousy Molly Hooper, who could be so easily humiliated, someone fragile and nervous and so easily hurt.

It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. Well, it was, but – that was who he was, wasn’t it? That was the price you paid for knowing him. He wasn’t ever going to change, not ever.

So maybe it was time that Molly did.

She stopped wearing her bright lipsticks to work, and stopped looking for Sherlock’s appreciation, and started working for something else. Not just from Sherlock, either, but from everyone. It didn’t seem to do much good. But it felt like progress of a kind, like slipping back into a familiar skin. Maybe no one else noticed the change, but Molly knew that it was there, and it felt right.

Still, sometimes Molly wondered what it would be like to be looked at, and to be _seen_ , instead of the person doing the seeing. To be something other than invisible, just the woman everyone glanced at and never gave a second thought to.


	10. Chapter 10

** Then **

When Mary was eighteen, her father developed cancer, and their way of life began to change for the first time since her mother had died.

For the first time her father was weak. Mary had to be strong for the both of them.

As time passed her Dad grew sick and frail, his frame thinning down, his breath rasping. He seemed nothing like the strong, taciturn man Mary had grown up with, stone-cold and able to weather pretty much anything. It was as though the disease had stripped all of the strength out of him, leaving only a shadow of the man he had once been.

When he finally let go and let the disease take him, Mary had him buried in a quiet service, without ceremony or fanfare.

She was the only person in attendance, and as she watched the burial she felt oddly cold and hollow. She was twenty-three years old, and if she had a purpose, something deeper and more meaningful than simply killing people for money, Mary didn’t know what it was.

She took another contract the very next day. She had no room for sentiment.


	11. Chapter 11

** Now **

Molly saw the way that Sherlock looked, when he thought no one was watching. It reminded her of her father, the way he was carefully stoic and down-to-earth whenever she was there, but the moment he thought she wasn’t there to see him… he looked sad, and weary, and there was something in his gaze that to this day Molly still can’t identify. 

Whatever it was, that indefinable emotion, Molly could see it in Sherlock’s eyes, when he thought there was no one there to see.

_ Idiot’s got himself in trouble,  _ whispered Mary at the back of her mind. _That sort always do._

Molly wasn’t stupid, and she’d heard about Jim and the things he’d been claiming, and the way that things looked bad for Sherlock. But if her instincts were right, then things went far deeper than she or anyone else knew. Sherlock had the look of someone about to face hell, and not sure if he was going to survive long enough to come out the other side. 

When Sherlock came to her late one night, and looked her in the eyes and told her that he thought he was going to die, Molly felt herself overtaken by a sense of purpose that she hadn’t felt in years. Sherlock might never have looked at her twice, but his affection had never been a condition of hers. And she was damned if bloody Jim was going to take him from her. Sherlock was a friend, and Molly would do whatever it took to see him through this.

“What do you need?”


	12. Chapter 12

** Now **

In the months that followed Sherlock’s ‘death,’ Molly found herself quietly getting back in contact with people she shouldn’t have known, going to places that she shouldn’t have known about, and keeping tabs on the progress of the dismantling on Moriarty’s empire. After all, if she was going to do it properly, she might as well see everything through to the end.

John Watson was grey with grief, and Molly felt uncomfortable every time she saw him. His grief followed him everywhere like a heavy cloud, thick and clogging up the air around him. Molly didn’t know what to say, even though she tried. In the end, she gave up, and left it to Mrs Hudson and Mycroft Holmes, whose car pulled up in front of John’s place surprisingly often. But then, considering what Sherlock had done, maybe it wasn’t so surprising, after all. Mycroft Holmes was a hard man, and a cold man, but he was as human as everyone else, and even he wasn’t completely immune to sentiment.

Molly continued checking in with her contacts. Sherlock seemed to be doing well, taking down Moriarty’s empire with the same single-minded fanaticism he’d used when solving crime. But there was one name that never appeared on the lists of the dead. Never appeared at all, until the day it did, and Molly knew that Sherlock was in grave danger. 

Molly hesitated for just a moment. Then she gave a long, resigned sigh, and went to retrieve the case she’d hidden beneath the wooden panel in the bottom of her wardrobe.

(Twenty-five year old Molly hadn’t quite gotten rid of _everything_ , after all. Sometimes, it paid to be prepared, even as you hoped that particular contingency never came to pass.)


	13. Chapter 13

** Now **

It wasn’t hard to track him down.

When she found him, he had Sherlock at gun-point. He was in control of the situation, and there was nothing Sherlock could do at this point but pray. Fortunately, Sherlock had her, and hopefully that would be enough, even against Moran.

There was the quiet _click_ of someone taking off the safety somewhere behind him, and he went stiff in recognition of the sound.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mary said in her naturally clipped tones. The gun never wavered from her target.

“ _Molly?_ ” Sherlock gasped incredulously, because he never knew when to just bloody well shut up for once.

Moran turned slowly, bringing Mary into his field of vision without ever losing sight of Sherlock, his hand as steady as hers where it pressed the gun muzzle to Sherlock’s temple.

“You know, you _look_ like that little mouse Jim fooled around with a few times,” Sebastian mused calmly, his eyes bright and keen. “But I don’t think that’s quite who I’m talking to.”

“Mary Morstan,” Mary said, her voice sharp.

The other assassin’s eyes widened in surprise, and oddly, surprised recognition.

“Magnum Morstan’s little girl, all grown up,” he said aloud, and laughed, “Little Mary Morstan. And you’re working in a morgue, after all the time you spent putting people in one? Oh, you’re _wasted._ ”

Mary felt her mouth stretch into a familiar brittle smile.

“I felt entitled to an early retirement,” she replied. “Something relaxing, like dissecting corpses.”

Sebastian laughed again, delighted. Sherlock, meanwhile, hadn’t moved a muscle, his eyes flickering rapidly between Moran and Mary, still deducing things inside his head.

“Now that’s the girl I taught long-range shooting to,” Moran said smiling.

“Yes,” said Mary.

She didn’t give any warning.

Sherlock, alert as ever, threw himself backwards, impossibly quick, barely before Mary pulled the trigger.

Mary lowered her arm.

“You’re a complete idiot, you know that?” Molly asked tightly. “One of these days you’re going to end up dead, _really_ dead.”

She realised she was crying.

“Moran was bloody dangerous – I should know, he taught me some things–”

“Molly?” Sherlock asked carefully.

Molly concentrated on steadying her breathing.

“I just shot the first man I ever fell in love with, for you,” she told Sherlock. “I hope you appreciate that.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

Molly giggled a little, slightly hysterically, and wiped her face on her sleeve. Which was disgusting, but right now she didn’t care.

“If that’s all of them,” she said, “I think we should see John. Now, Sherlock.”

The way his eyes lit up – like stars, she thought – was enough of a reply in itself.


	14. Chapter 14

** Now **

Molly was in the morgue when she received a visitor.

“Miss Morstan.”

“Hooper,” Molly corrected, without looking up. “Doctor Hooper, actually. I’m pretty sure that whoever you’re looking for is dead.”

“Is she?”

Molly looked up then, and smiled at him. It was a perfectly warm, friendly smile, to match the expression of perfectly polite interest on his face.

“Yes. She is.”

“I see.” Mycroft Holmes lingered a moment longer, before nodding, and strolling in a stately way to the door, umbrella swinging slightly. “Then I wish you a good day, Dr Hooper. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Not at all, Mr Holmes.”

He paused just beyond the threshold.

“And thank you,” he added, his voice far quieter.

He was gone before Molly could make any response.


	15. Chapter 15

** Now **

Three months after Sherlock’s return, Molly was threatened by a lunatic with a gun who wanted Molly to destroy evidence.

Scotland Yard burst in just in time to see Molly grab the moron’s wrist, sweep his arm to one side, jab him hard in the throat, and step forward to knee him first in the groin and then in the face as he doubled over in agony. It was easy enough to take the gun off him as he went down. 

“Excellent work, Molly,” said Sherlock from behind the dumbstruck law enforcement officers, from where he’d followed them in, unperturbed.

“Yeah, nicely done,” John agreed, looking approving, and possibly a little admiring.

Molly grinned at them. It was more a Mary sort of grin than a Molly one, really, but she _had_ just incapacitated a gun-wielding madman. It was understandable.

Although, a lot more of Mary seemed to be slipping through, these days.

She handed the gun to Greg Lestrade, thoughtfully putting the safety back on first, because some of his team didn’t look too bright, and she’d hate for there to be any accidents.

She turned to find that Sherlock had lost all interest in her and was ordering around the men cuffing the disarmed lunatic, but that John was still watching her, an indefinable expression in his blue eyes.

For once, Molly decided that she might as well go for it.

“John,” she asked, grinning again, “would you like to get a coffee sometime?”

John’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. He gave her a long, steady look, but Molly just continued to grin at him.

He cleared his throat.

“That sounds nice. I… would, yeah. That sounds… great.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a face at them both from where he was lecturing Greg Lestrade, but it wasn’t enough to dim Molly’s smile.

"Good."

**Author's Note:**

> _I sincerely apologise to anyone who got an email every time I updated this. Sorry._


End file.
